Born in London, was the daughter of Edmund Mersey-Wigley, of Shakenhurst, Worcestershire, and in 1840 was married to Rev. Archer Clive. Mrs. Clive was a confirmed invalid for some years previous to her death, which was the result of an accident, her dress having caught fire while she was writing in her boudoir at Whitfield, Herefordshire. Her works were all published anonymously. 1. IX Poems. By V. Lon., 1840, p. 8vo; 2d ed., 1841. (This volume attracted much notice, and was very favorably reviewed in the Quarterly. The second edition includes nine additional poems.) 2. I Watched the Heavens: a Poem. By V. Lon., 1842, p. 8vo. (The first canto of an unfinished poem.) 3. The Queen’s Ball: a Poem. By V. Lon., 1847, p. 8vo. 4. The Valley of the Rea: a Poem. By V. Lon., 1851, p. 8vo. 5. The Morlas: a Poem. By V. Lon., 1853, p. 8vo. 6. Paul Ferroll: a Tale. By the Author of “IX Poems,” by V. Lon., 1855, p. 8vo. (The fourth edition contains a concluding chapter, bringing the story down to the death of Paul Ferroll.)… 7. Poems. By the Author of “Paul Ferroll.” Including a New Edition of “IX Poems,” by V.: with Former and Recent Editions. Lon., 1856, 8vo. (Some of the earlier poems are omitted in this edition). 8. Year after Year. By the Author of “Paul Ferroll” and “IX Poems.” Lon., 1858, 12mo. 9. Why Paul Ferroll Killed his Wife, Lon., 1860, 12mo.; new ed., 1864. (The preface contains a defence of “Paul Ferroll” against some strictures in the Edinburgh Review)…. 10. John Greswold. By the Author of “Paul Ferroll.” Lon., 1864, 2 vols. p. 8vo…. 11. Poems. By V., Author of “Paul Ferroll.” Including the “IX Poems.” Lon., 1872, 8vo. (This contains twelve new poems, but is not a complete edition.)

Personal

  There never was a more remarkable contrast between the temperament of the poetess and the temperament of the woman, than that which exists between the thoughtful gravity, the almost gloomy melancholy that characterizes the writings of that celebrated initial letter, the “V.” of “Blackwood’s Magazine,” and the charming, cheerful, light-hearted lady, known as Mrs. Clive…. I have never known any creature half so cheerful. Happy sister, happy mother, happy wife, she even bears the burden of a large fortune and a great house without the slightest diminution of the delightful animal spirits, which always seem to me to be of her many gifts the choicest. Moreover, enjoyment seems to be her mode of thankfulness; as, not content with being happy herself, she has a trick of making every body happy that comes near her. I do not know how she contrives it, but such is the effect. There is no resisting the contagious laughter of those dancing eyes.

  We have reclaimed from “Paul Ferroll” a hitherto inedited poem that bears pathetic evidence of the unlifted shadow her lameness cast over her entire after life. All the more, however, her natively powerful intellect was strengthened by her being thrown upon her inward resources. By surely an unhappy misjudgment and reticence the family has given no memoir of her beyond the meagre Note prefixed to her collected poems by her daughter (Mrs. Alice Greathed) of 1890 (Longmans). This is the more to be regretted, because she wrote all her life, was a brilliant conversationalist, was held in highest regard within an exceptionally notable intellectual circle, and carried on a large correspondence.

General

  Of “IX Poems by V.” we emphatically say in old Greek—Βαιὰ μἐν ᾁλλὰ ῬΟΔΑ. It is an Ennead to which every Muse may have contributed her ninth. We suppose V. stands tor Victoria, and really she queens it among our fair friends. Perhaps V. will think it is a questionable compliment, if we say, like the late Baron Graham to Lady —— in the assize court at Exeter,” We beg your ladyship’s pardon, but we really took you for a man.” Indeed these few pages are distinguished by a sad Lucretian tone, which very seldom comes from a woman’s lyre. But V. is a woman, and no ordinary woman, certainly:—though whether spinster, wife, or widow, we have not been informed. Her poems are of such equal merit, that it matters little to her reputation or our readers’ pleasure which we quote.

  Of “IX. Poems by V.,” we would say with the Quarterly, Βαιὰ μἐν ᾁλλὰ ῬΟΔΑ. They combine rare excellences; the strength, the finish, the gravity of a man’s thoughts, with the tenderness, the insight, the constitutional sorrowfulness of a woman’s—her purity, her passionateness, her delicate and just sense and expression. We confess we would rather have been the author of any one of the nine poems in this little volume, than of the very tremendous, very absurd, very raw, loud, and fuliginous “Festus,” with his many thousands of lines and his amazing reputation, his bad English, bad religion, bad philosophy, and very bad jokes—his “buttered thunder” (this is his own phrase), and his poor devil of a Lucifer—we would, we repeat (having in this our subita ac sæva indignatio run ourselves a little out of breath), as much rather keep company with “V.” than with Mr. Bailey, as we would prefer going to sea for pleasure, in a trim little yacht, with its free motions, its quiet, its cleanliness, and its gliding at its own sweet will, to taking a state berth in some Fire-King steamer of 1000 horse-power, with his mighty and troublous throb, his smoke, his exasperated steam, his langour and fire and fury, his oils and smells.

  As every body that thinks deeply, as she does, must have some moments of sadness, she is content to put them into her writings: sometimes in prose, for her “Story of the Great Drought” has an intensity of tragic power, a realization of impossible horrors, such as give their fascination to the best works of Godwin; sometimes in verse, where the depth of thought and fearless originality of treatment, frequently redeem the commonest subject from any thing like commonplace.

  The title-page of the volume of poems by the author of “Paul Ferroll” reminds us that the Quarterly Review in 1840 committed itself to the belief that the nine poems, which were all Mrs. Archer Clive had yet published, contained stanzas “worthy of any one of our greatest poets in his happiest moments.” Certainly we are more struck with the quality of the writer’s talent than with its quantity, and yet this quality is too abstract, not to say too ghostly, to be really individual. The originality of the poems lies wholly in their intensity. There is nothing uncommon about the style, which never emancipates itself from the conventional range of the better class of album verses. There is nothing uncommon about the topics…. This is V.’s peculiar distinction to be so powerful as to be strange without ceasing to be obvious; she sees nothing which other people do not see, but she cares with all the strength of a proud, passionate nature about things that other people seldom care about…. It is curious, perhaps, that so abnormal a nature should be so eagerly submissive to traditional beliefs; the only approach to a cry of revolt is the feverish prayer for death at once sudden and triumphant, which forms the substance of the lines written in health. Perhaps it may explain this submission if we remember that mental intensity does not always imply mental activity, and that the author of “Paul Ferroll” has certainly written very little. Perhaps, too, this submission is one condition of the sustained quietness to which so much of the power and the horror of that singular tale is due.

  This novel [“Paul Ferroll”] has passed through a number of editions, and has been translated into French by Madame H. Loreau. In the fourth edition a concluding chapter was added, bringing the story down to the death of Paul Ferroll…. “Why Paul Ferroll killed his Wife, by the author of ‘Paul Ferroll’,” London, 1860, 12mo. Though the names of the characters are different, the object of this novel is to explain the opening chapter of “Paul Ferroll.” It is not, however, at all equal in power to its predecessor.

  The author of the remarkable novel of “Paul Ferroll,” whose “IX. Poems by V.” attracted much attention from competent critics in the doubtful time of poetry about the middle of the century, and are really good.

  Mrs. Clive’s reputation chiefly rests upon her story of “Paul Ferroll,” published in 1855, and its sequel, “Why Paul Ferroll Killed his Wife.” The second story was, however, in no way equal to the first; and a subsequent novel, “John Greswold,” which appeared in 1864, was decidedly inferior to its predecessors, although containing passages of considerable literary merit. “Paul Ferroll” has passed through several editions, and has been translated into French. It was not until the fourth edition that the concluding chapter, which brings the story down to the death of Paul Ferroll, was added…. “Paul Ferroll” may be considered as the precursor of the purely sensational novel, or of what may be called the novel mystery. Miss Brontë in “Jane Eyre” uses to some extent the same kind of material, but her work is far more a study of character than the story of “Paul Ferroll” can claim to be. In “Paul Ferroll,” indeed, the analysis of motive is entirely absent. The motives that actuated Paul Ferroll are to be gathered simply from chance expressions or his actions. No description of the human heart has been attempted. The picture of the violent, revengeful, strongly passionate nature of the man is forcible enough, but it is displayed by action and not by introspection. It is for this reason that Mrs. Clive may be placed in the forefront of the sensational novelists of the century. She anticipated the work of Wilkie Collins, of Charles Reade, of Miss Braddon, and many others of their school, in showing human nature as expressed by its energies, neither diagnosing it like a physician, nor analysing it like a priest.